In the shoulder-width paths swims the gondola

gliding over ancient dust and painted remains

facing up and meeting walls

standing face to coloured face.

In this hushed alleyway,

with its disturbed tranquility of distance roars

ringing from the Murano glass-studded,

nameless masks,

in this blushing sunset of applause for its elegancy,

in this still living mosaic island

stretching up its head on the sinking wine—

she peeks out her window

with dark eyes drawn to the rocking barcarole—

a string snaps, a pain pinches,

but she too is another glittering face

in this man-made spectacle.